“Yeah, you and Dud are such good buddies. And what’s with this ‘already’ favor?”

“Besides no reprimand or interdepartmental charges on Sanderline Johnson?”

“Chief, come on.”

“I destroyed the autopsy report on Johnson. The coroner noted a non sequitur bruise with imbedded paint fragments on his forehead, as if he banged his head against a windowsill before he jumped. I’m not saying that you’re culpable; but other people, notably Welles Noonan, might. I had the file destroyed. And I have a case for you. I’m detaching you from Ad Vice immediately to start working on it.”

Weak knees: “What case?”

“The Kafesjian burglary. I read the Wilshire Squad occurrence report, and I’ve decided I want a major investigation. I’m fully aware of the family’s LAPD history, and I don’t care what Captain Wilhite wants. You and Sergeant Stemmons are detached as of now. Shake the family, shake their known associates. J.C. employs a runner named Abe Voldrich, so lean on him while you’re at it. I want a full forensic and the files checked for similar B&Es. Start tomorrow—with a show of force.”

I stood up. “This is fucking insane. Lean on our sanctioned Southside dope kingpin when the U.S. Attorney just might be planning a rackets probe down there. Some pervo kills two dogs and jacks off on some-”

Exley, standing/crowding: “Do it. Detach canvassing officers from Wilshire Patrol and bring in the Crime Lab. Stemmons lacks field experience, but use him anyway. Show of force. And don’t make me regret the favors I’ve done you.”

SHOW OF FORCE.

8:00 A.M., 1684 South Tremaine. Personnel: lab crew, print team, four bluesuits.

The blues deployed: house-to-house witness checks, trashcan checks. Traffic cops standing by to shoo the press off.

Show of force—Exley’s wild hair up the ass.

Show of force-short-shrift it.

A compromise with Dan Wilhite—one edgy phone call. I said Exley pure had me; he called the job crazy—J.C. and the Department: twenty years of two-way profit. I owed Dan; he owed me—favors backlogged. Wilhite, scared: “I retire in three months. My dealings with the family won’t stand up to outside-agency scrutiny. Dave... can you ... play it easy?”

I said, “My ass first, yours second.”

He said, “I’ll call J.C. and jerk his leash.”

8:04—showtirne.

Black & whites, a lab van. Patrolmen, tech men. Gawkers galore, little kids.

The driveway—I walked the lab guys back. Ray Pinker: “I called Animal Control. They told me they got no dead dog reports from this address. You think the people planted them in some pet cemetery?”

Garbage day—trashcans lined up in the alley. “Maybe, but check those cans behind the back fence. I don’t think Old Man Kafesjian’s so sentimental.”

“I heard he was a real sweetheart. We find the dogs, then what?”

“Take tissue samples for a make on what they were poisoned with. If they’re still chewing on washcloths, get me a make on the chemical—it smelled like chloroform. I need ten minutes to talk up J.C., then I want you to come inside and bag fibers in the kitchen, living room and dining room. Send the print guys in then, and tell them just the downstairs—I don’t think our burglar went upstairs. He jerked off on some pedal pushers, so if Pops didn’t throw them out you can test the semen for blood type.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, Jesus. Listen, if he did dump them, they’re probably in those garbage cans. Pastel-colored pedal pushers ripped at the crotch, not everyday stuff. And Ray? I want a nice fat summary report on all this.”

“Don’t shit a shitter. You want me to pad it, say it.”

“Pad it. I don’t know what Exley wants, so let’s give him something to chew on.”

Madge at the back door, looking out. Heavy makeup-Pan-Cake over bruises.

Ray nudged me. “She doesn’t look Armenian.”

“She’s not, and their kids don’t look it either. Ray—”

“Yeah, I’ll pad it.”

Back to the street—rubberneckers swarming. Junior and Tommy K. locking eyes.

Tommy, porch loafer: bongo shirt, pegger pants, sax.

Junior sporting his new look: whipped dog with a mean streak.

I braced him—avuncular. “Come on, don’t let that guy bother you.”

“It’s those looks of his. Like he knows something I don’t.”

“Forget about it.”

“You didn’t have to kowtow to him.”

“I didn’t disobey my CO.”

“Dave…”

“Dave nothing. Your father’s an inspector, he got you the Bureau, and my Ad Vice command was part of the deal. It’s a game. You owe your father, I owe your father, I owe Dan Wilhite. We both owe the Department, so we have to play things like Exley’s off the deep end on this deal. Do you understand?”

“I understand. But it’s your game, so just don’t tell me it’s right.”

Slap his fucking face—no—don’t. “You pull that idealistic shit on me and I’ll hand your father a fitness report that will bounce you back to a teaching job in record goddamn time. My game got you where you are. You play along or you see ‘ineffectual command presence,’ ‘overly volatile’ and ‘poor composure in stress situations’ on Daddy’s desk tonight. You call it, Sergeant.”

Punk bravado: “I’m playing. I called the Pawnshop Detail and gave them a description of the silverware, and I got a list of Kafesjian’s drycleaning shops. Three for you, three for me, the usual questions?”

“Good, but let’s see what the patrolmen turn first. Then, after you hit your three, go downtown and check the Central burglary files and Sheriff’s files for 459s with similar MOs. You turn some, great. If not, check homicide unsolveds—maybe this clown’s a goddamn killer.”

A stink, fly swarms—lab men hauled the dogs out, dripping garbage.

“I guess you wouldn’t tell me these things if you didn’t care.”

“That’s right.”

“You’ll see, Dave. I’ll prove myself on this one.”

Tommy K. honked his sax—spectators clapped. Tommy bowed and pumped his crotch.

“Hey, Lieutenant! You come and talk to me!”

J.C. on the porch, holding a tray out. “Hey! We have an eye opener!”

I walked up. Bottled beer—Tommy grabbed one and guzzled. Check his arms: skin-pop tracks, swastika tattoos.

J.C. smiled. “Don’t tell me too early for you.”

Tommy belched. “Schlitz, Breakfast of Champions.”

“Five minutes, Mr. Kafesjian. Just a few questions.”

“I say all right, Captain Dan said you okay, this thing is not your idea. You follow me. Tommy, you go offer the other men Breakfast of Champions.”

Tommy dipped the tray a Ia carhop. J.C. bowed, follow-me style. I followed him into the den: pine walls, gun racks. Check the parlor—print men, carhop Tommy hawking beer.

J.C. shut the door. “Dan told me you just going to go through the motions.”

“Not quite. This is Ed Exley’s case, and his rules are different than ours.”

“We do business, your people and mine. He knows that.”

“Yeah, and he’s stretching the rules this time. He’s the Chief of Detectives, and Chief Parker lets him do what he wants. I’ll try to go easy, but you’ll have to play along.”

J.C.: greasy and ugly. Face scratches—his own daughter clawed him. “Why? Exley, he’s crazy?”

“I don’t know why, which is a damn good question. Exley wants the major-case treatment on this one, and he’s a better goddamn detective than I am. I can only bullshit him so far.”

J.C. shrugged. “Hey, you smart, you got more juice. You a lawyer, you tight with Mickey Cohen.”

“No. I fix things, Exley runs things. You want smart? Exley’s the best detective the LAPD’s ever seen. Come on, help me. You don’t want regular cops nosing around, I understand that. But some piece-of-shit burglar breaks in here and rips up-”

“I clean my own house! Tommy and me, we find this guy!”

Easy now: “No. We find him, then maybe Dan Wilhite gives you a shot. No trouble, nice and legal.”